Bartimaeus: The D'jinn on Fire
by S.Zed
Summary: Bartimaeus is drawn down into a deadly game where magicians are pitted against each other (or more precisely, their demons are) and only one may leave alive. (Bart bets on himself)
1. Chapter 1

Bartimaeus is a wonderful character created by Jonathan Stroud.

The Hunger Games is a fascinating story created by Suzanne Collins.

This travesty of a story is the product of late night pizza and too much redbull.

Enjoy.

* * *

**ONE**

It goes without saying that you fleshies are the most arrogant, self-serving, narcissistic and most benighted self-deluded, ignorant excuses for creations in the created universe. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Take what happened to me last week as an example. For eons and eons now I, the Great and Powerful Bartimaeus of Uruk, Builder of Jericho and all around loveable mascot have been recording my wondrous (and completely plausible) exploits for the sake of thrilling and sucking up the adulation of posterity. But not once, (not ONCE, mind you,) have any one of my millions of fan mail questions ever asked of any of my (wondrous (and completely plausible)) adventures in alternate mudballs.

It's almost as if every single stinky human (and I mean that in the nicest possible way) believes his pathetic little mudball is the only one in the universe and that he and all his little denizens occupy a special place in creation. (In all fairness, I will admit that no matter what plane of reality you humans are from, you hold the same reputation among higher beings (and no, I don't mean that in any sort of nice way.))

Now where was I? Oh, yes. Take last week as an example. Once again, I was floating around in the Other Place, licking my wounds from my last visit to the fleshy realm (or 'slumming' as it's referred to among higher beings such as imps.) I was still dog-tired from the whole unfortunate affair (that involved my essence getting locked into the 'body' of a wooden puppet for some old pedophile who wished he could have a 'real boy'. (It goes without saying that I ran away and joined show business, but that's a story for another time.)) It was then that I felt that annoying tug that I loath so much.

As usual, I did my best to shrug it off but the tug became more and more insistent to the point of actual discomfiture. I relented and sighed dispiritedly (which is a pretty impressive thing for a spirit to do) as I felt myself crammed and confined into the slimy limitations of four dimensional space-time. As I sped along I was suddenly pulled off course and I noticed that I was being drawn towards an alternate earth than what I had become accustomed.

(This doesn't happen as often as one would think simply because we d'jinn are only called upon when our names are known, and in some worlds they are known more than another. (For instance, there was this one world where I was called down quite frequently by this dorky kid named Nathaniel who, I am positive, had a flaming crush on me. Quite understandable, of course.))

Passing over the threshold of this strange new world I felt my essence shiver; something was terribly wrong with this place. I shrugged off this feeling and attributed it to a long standing bias that I had lovingly cultivated for centuries. (After all, you guys are the type one loves to hate.) I experimented with the lashing of the summoning and was pleasantly surprised to find them shaking and on the verge of buckling. It was almost as if the magician had been someone who was in a terrible hurry and had plopped down an altogether shoddy job. (Yes, I had already begun to think of this magician in the past tense.)

My confidence rose along with my appetite. It had been so long since I had properly gorged myself and I felt I deserved a treat. (After all, a great, noble, powerful, awesome, fourth-level djinn such as myself works hard.) I skimmed through the possibilities of how best to appear before my new fast-food meal- I mean 'master'. You don't really want to wast the really subtle manifestations on some amateur. Avant guard would go right over his head. (In the end, I decided to appear as a white sheet and yell 'BOO!' really loudly. (You can't go wrong with the classics.))

Walls began to form around me as I came to rest in a squiggly pentacle. The flames of the surrounding candles shook in my presence and the room grew icy cold and shrouded with shadows.

"Who dares summon the all powerful and all-knowing-"

"Oh, not now! None of that." The girl's voice was distracted and terrified. She panted, clearly out of breath and (if I was not mistaken) holding back tears.

My supernatural eyes peered through the gloominess at a completely blank and dank room. The walls were cemented ages before and were cracking and flaking all over while the floor was covered with rat dropping and a shaky and barely correct chalk pentacle. The girl stood before me, possibly twelve years old, her face shining with sweat and her eyes wide with terror.

"Demon," she said, pointing her little stub of chalk at me like a weapon. "I charge you to tell me your name."

On the other side of a closed door I heard footsteps running at full speed. "Bartimaeus," I said.

"Hey," a gruff boy's voice yelled from behind the door. "This way! She must have gone in here,"

The girl looked at the door with panic and turned back to me with renewed urgency. "Bartimaeus," she said, keeping the quake out of her voice. "I charge you with-"

BANG

The door shook with sudden impact causing the girl to jump with a squeal. "She must have bolted it," the gruff voice of the boy said. "You, slave, open it."

"I charge you," the girl had closed her eyes as though to block out the boy's voice.

BANG

Something heavy violently struck the door. The metal creased and bent as it screamed in protest and bits of cement and plaster rained down on the girl's head. "I charge you..."

The angry force crashed against the misshapen door one more time and it flew across the room to impact with the opposite wall.

"...To keep me safe," the girl finally got the words out just as the malevolent figure stepped through the doorway. And that is when the ship hit the spam.

to be continued...


	2. Abigail I

**ABIGAIL**

"Is your mommy home, sweetness?" The question came from a pair of fat red lips distorted into a huge fake smile. The fake smile was stretched across a wrinkled, leathery face and sported a glistening pair of pure white dentures. Her eyes, partially hidden behind stylish tinted glasses, bulged ever so slightly. No doubt, the over abundance of face lifts was the reason her eyes never seemed to blink.

The girl looked into those eyes with a mixture fascination and defiance. "My mother does not live here," she said, keeping her voice even. "You lot took me from her six years ago."

The woman continued to regard the girl with the same plastered smile, giving no indication she had heard the reply. Next to her, her companion hacked and couched painfully. "Cheeky brat," he managed to wheeze. "You know we are referring to your true parents. Your government appointed parents." His shaking, liver-spotted hand plucked a red handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at the dribble by his nose. "Your true guardians. Not whatever biological sewer grime happened to spawn you," he added as an afterthought.

Abigail felt the blood rise to her cheeks and she clutched the door nob tightly, determined to slam the door on the two hideous faces. But before she could act, the two adults had pushed their way past her and slithered into the landing. "Put my coat away, would you, dearie?" The woman said, throwing her fur over Abigail's head. Abigail gasped as the scent of unwashed musk and monkey hair filled her nostrils.

"What d'ya think you're doing, Haggis?" the old man said. "The little demon will pilfer it, for sure." To underscore his point, the old man hugged his rank coat protectively around his bony person.

Haggis merely tittered through her dentures. "Nonsense, Amon. The cute little dear is perfectly sweet and obedient. Aren't you, sweetness?" Haggis leaned forward and pinched Abigail's cheek painfully, only adding to the red hue that had already accumulated. Amon snorted in a way that said, 'suit yourself', and sauntered on past a small bookcase collecting mounds of dust and occupied himself with a bleary television that sputtered through a haze of static.

"Child!" a woman screeched from atop a flight of stairs. "Child, who was that at the bloody door?" Heavy footsteps began pounding their way down the stairway accompanied by loud mumblings. "...By heaven, if you've subscribed us to another one of your pathetic science magazines or given away any more alms, so help me I shall..." A stout woman appeared before them in a wet, pink bathrobe and her hair impossibly tangled in a mess of curlers. Her hand flew to cover her mouth as she gasped. "'Pon my word," she whispered. "You lot are from the Ministry."

"That we are, fair madam Paltra," Amon said, bending his bony knees in an attempt at a bow. "It is our grandest and gravest privilege to inform you-"

"GEORGE!" The stout woman hollered through a cupped hand, thoroughly startling Amon. "GEORGE, GET DOWN HERE. WE 'AVE COMPANY.

"Oh, this is wonderful. Ever so wonderful. Of course you'll be staying for tea. It's only fair. You've come to my home so I must offer you something. Oh, dear, George will be so thrilled that you both have come to visit.

"GEORGE, GET THE BLOODY 'ELL DOWN HERE. Poor chap is a tad hard of hearing is all. He'll be down in his own time. He always comes down in time for tea. You _will_ be staying for tea of course. It's only fair, after all.

"Now where is the blasted tea. I can't very well serve you tea without tea. That would be ridiculous. She should have brought it in ages ago. Where is that blasted brat? I tell you, when I get my hands on her that brat of a demon child she will wish she was never born.."

The stout woman's eyes fell upon Abigail who was still struggling beneath the huge fur coat and her eyes grew red with rage. "How dare you?" the woman roared, her nostrils flaring wildly. Abigail's eyes shot up and widened with shock. "How dare you, you despicable child! These are our esteemed guests. How dare you attempt something so low and vile."

"But- but-" the girl stuttered in confusion. "What are you-"

"Trying to steal this good woman's fur coat! After she has graced us with her presence all the way from the ministry. The shame. Ohhhh, the bloomin' shame!"

Haggis' stretched smile regarded the one-sided exchange with implacable serenity while Amon shot her a sly smirk that clearly said 'I told you so'.

"But I didn't." Abigail protested. "Honest. She gave it to me-"

"LIAR!" Madam Paltra exclaimed as she grabbed a book and flung it at the girl. Abigail deftly ducked the projectile and scrambled from under the coat and out of the room. A vase smashed against the wall over her head as she reached the hall way followed by a torrent of abrasive curses and expletives.

Breathing heavily and still partially on all fours, she scampered for the safety of her room, into the relative darkness and she slammed the door.

A heavy silence followed the echo of the slammed door that was only broken by her mixed panting and whimpering. She leaned against the cold wooden door and took in several deep breaths. In and out... in and out.

Slowly, she stopped shaking and her head filled with a sense of coolness. Her eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dim light of her room and one by one she found the things that always comforted her during low periods. Three wall, covered from floor to ceiling with books. Heavy leather tomes, thoroughly worn and dog-eared with not a speck of dust on them. A small lamp that she kept lit into the small hours of the night as she lost herself within flaking pages of worn parchment and cracking ink.

And there, across the floor boards of her cramped room, adorned by incense and candles, her very own, personally drawn pentagram.

Abigail wiped her nose on her sleeve and strained her ears. Faintly she could hear the slight remnants of conversation wafting their way up from the living room but she could make out no words. What was going on? Who were those people? What did they want?

She decided she was going to find out. She bent down and pulled a loose floorboard revealing a reflective glimmer. Tenderly, she lifted the polished mirror from it's hiding place and gazed into it. A pale twelve-year-old with determined dark eyes and straggly black hair stared back at her. Quietly, she spoke the Aramaic word of command and her reflection faded replaced by a grimacing rat.

"Well, it's about ruddy time, sweetheart," the rat said, pulling at its whiskers. "I've been cooped up in here for forever. Been wonder when you planned on setting me loose."

Abigail ignored the rat and spoke the second word of command. The rat began to groan and pulled at it's whiskers all the harder. "Hey, what's wrong with you? Didn't you get the hint that I was subtly clubbing over your noggin? And here I've been thinking what a clever and kind little girl you were when all along you're as thick as-"

"I want to see what's going on downstairs," Abigail said, keeping her voice as steady as stone.

"So go downstairs and see. Honestly, of all the things you could possibly have me spy on. Far away lands, romantic islands, secrets within the ministry, inside the boys locker and you ask me to go look downstairs. I'll have you know, darlin', I am a most accomplished rat, familiar with all forms of espionage with a license to kill. Or is that grill? I always forget because I'm an expert cook to, you see-"

Abigail spoke a word of punishment and the rat's verbal resume trailed off in a shriek of pain. "Alright, alright. Downstairs it is then. But I'm telling you now, missy, you won't like what you see."


	3. Abigail II

**THREE**

**ABIGAIL II**

Slowly the surface of the mirror cleared of the rat's ugly face and a new image swirled into focus. Abigail squinted in dissatisfaction at the blurry picture and shook her head. It was only a few feet away, for crying out loud. She sent a quick shock through the creatures astral umbilical cord and the picture suddenly came into sharp focus. (Accompanied by a yelp and a string of curses.)

The rat, it seemed had taken a perch near the rusty chandelier and was viewing the rooms occupants from a birds-eye-view. "Don't get too close," Abigail warned through the glass, "I'm sure those Ministry blokes will be wearing contacts."

The imp obeyed and took refuge behind the chandelier's stem, peering out cautiously.

Madame Paltra had decided to rest her ample bottom on a kitchen stool leaving the plush couch for her visitors. Abigail watched her gesticulate animatedly, bobbing her head up and down as she both nodded and shook her head simultaneously while her mouth never ceased movement. Haggis sat almost motionless with her strange, stretched smile still plastered benignly on her face as she politely sipped her tea. The old man, Amon, made no pretense of his boredom. His not-so-furtive side long glances at the television set made it very clear he had no interest in anything Madame Paltra had to say. (Truthfully, Abigail couldn't rightly blame him.)

Madame Paltra either did not notice her guest's lack of enthusiasm or didn't care as her lips only moved faster and faster as her monologue progressed. "I want to hear what they're saying," Abigail commanded, tapping the glass.

"Of course, as your lordship wishes," the rat said. "Would her lordship like me to fetch her some tea and crumpet while I'm about it? Ow! Ow! Okay, lay off. I'm doing it, I'm doing it!"

The next minute the imp's voice came through perfectly mimicking the conversation it hear. "...Really can't stress enough how pleased I am that you've dropped by to check on our progress. Lord knows, it's been hard. It's been a long hard six years but I'm proud to say we've taken the little monster well in hand."

"Beat her often?" Amon asked, not looking away from his cooking show.

"Oh, yes. All the time." Amon nodded his approval and she continued. "George is especially good at it, you understand. I usually leave it to him. I personally don't have the stomach for such things. I can't abide violence of any sort." (Abigail snorted, remembering a vase that had just missed her head not five minutes before.) "I consider myself the more nurturing and loving of the two of us. I've tried my best to take the monster and induct some morals and civilization into her but, as you know, it is an uphill battle. These types of creatures don't usually cotton much to such things as 'love' and 'friendship' or 'family'."

"You seem to have performed admirably," Haggis said, tipping her tea over her stretched lips. "She is certainly an adorable little specimen. Those big dark eyes, that innocent mouth. I can see audiences simply eating her up." Madame Paltra simpered. "Yes," Haggis continued, "under the circumstances you and your husband have done a bang up job. Particularly your husband if indeed he was the disciplinarian. These magician types can be very spiteful and dangerous to those they consider to have harmed them."

"Well, see now," Madame Paltra said, thinking as fast as she could. "I wouldn't go so far as to say George was the _only_ disciplinarian. That thing has received its share of whippings from me, mark you. All for it's own good, of course. Oh, you haven't the faintest notion how many nights I would lie awake in worry that my very life was at risk. The agony I had to contend with while old George slept the sleep of the blissful.

"_He _had nothing to worry about, of course, with him always brown-nosing the whelp with candies and the like. All the while leaving it to me to lay down the law. I can tell you, it's been a long and harrowing experience."

"I'm sure it has," Haggis said soothingly while Madame Paltra dried her eyes on a ragged handkerchief. "It sounds as though the pretty little tyke was positively feral."

"They sure can be," Amon said, rubbing his chin in a sage-like fashion. (His eyes were now glued to an acne commercial.) "That's how I got this here limp." He indicated his left foot. "I was given charge of this one magician boy and everything was going along swimmingly (I would water-board him every now and then) when one day, out of the clear blue sky, he up and turns on me. Pulverized the entire house, he did. And we never _did_ manage to sweep up all of Martha." He shook his head solemnly. "To this day, I still can't imagine why he done it. They're all rotten to the core, I say. Just plain evil and rotten to their very core."

Madame Paltry had grown very pale during the telling of this tale and Haggis rushed to assure her. "But it would seem you have had better luck than our poor Amon here. You have served your Queen and country very well. We all salute your service."

"Anything for the flag," Madame Paltry muttered, regaining her poise. (Or what passed for it.) "It has been an honor and a privilege to serve. Oh, by the way, it is really of no importance of course, but George and I have been wondering... Well, mainly George. It's mainly George who's been wondering..."

"What's got your goat, then?" Amon asked, distractedly.

"It's our monthly stipend. You know, for taking the thing into our home. I'm afraid the Ministry has missed the past few months and with times being so tough and prices so high-"

"My dear Madame," Haggis said, a hint of coolness entering her voice. "Surely a patriotic lady such as you understands that under difficult circumstances, such as the extreme deficit our government is now facing, certain sacrifices have to made all around. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, yes! Yes I would, indeed! No other thought ever entered my head. Anything for the flag and G-d save the Queen and all that."

"Good," Haggis said, sitting back and sipping her tea. Madame Paltry had started to sweat profusely and Haggis seemed to be enjoying the spectacle. "In any event, we've seen the child and all seems to be in order. She looks to be well suited and will fit in perfectly with what we have planned for this season."

"That's wonderful!" Madame Paltry gushed. "It is such an honor to be chosen. I daresay, George and I will become right famous and will have to be giving interviews every which way." Amon grunted something noncommittal. "And I'm especially looking forward to the special gifts that the Ministry offers with the honor."

Haggis stood up and retrieved her fur coat. "Ah, I'm afraid that custom has been discontinued. After all, if the Ministry is taking her off your hands you'll have a lot of expenses freed up."

"Yes, of course," Madame Paltry said, "anything for Queen and Country."

"Come along, Amon," Haggis said, striding to the door. The old man stood up and stretched his lanky legs. "You have three days to get her ready," Haggis now stood in the open doorway. "We'll pick the little darling up then and take her to the training camp. After that, you can expect to see her on all channels. The Games should prove very exciting this season."

And then, the lady named Haggis looped up and her non blinking eyes stared right through the mirror and met Abigail's eyes, almost as though she could see her. "May the odds be ever in your favor," her stretched lips said, and the two stepped out and closed the door.

Abigail let the image fade as the tired imp returned to it's prison. "CHILD!" she heard the muffled cry of Madame Paltry through her closed door. "CHILD! GET DOWN HERE AND CLEAN THIS RUDDY VASE YOU BROKE!"

Abigail just sat there on the floor in the middle of her pentagram. A numbing coldness had seeped through her and she felt herself begin to shiver. They chose her for the Games and she knew very well what that meant.

Her shaking hand dug frantically into her pocket and extricated a tiny locket. It had long since gone green but Abigail still considered it beautiful. Tenderly, with loving care, she opened it and held it close. A woman looked at her from a creased and faded paper within the locket. A woman with large dark eyes and straggly black hair. Abigail closed her hands tightly around the tiny ornament, and although the rest of her felt cold, her hands felt warm.

* * *

For all of you who are worried, we will be getting right back to Bart. So worry not.


	4. Bartimaeus II

BARTIMAEUS

I wouldn't go so far as to say that she was ugly (seeing as how I really really really like being alive,) but I _will_ go out on a limb and strongly imply it.

The entity that entered that dark smelly room was simply horrible to look at (and on the second, third, fourth and sixth planes she got progressively worse. (Oddly, she wasn't bad on the fifth.)) With her tall, scale covered reptilian body, squished face, purple horns, pink flamingo feathers and assorted fins and tentacles this demon was obviously making a bold fashion statement. (And that statement clearly was: I have no fashion sense.)

"Step aside, pathetic creature," her voice was like a bubbling gargle. "Step aside immediately or face total destruction."

I turned to address the petite dark-haired lass that had summoned me. "Well?" I said, "You heard the noble spirit, didn't you? All pathetic creatures are to step aside is what she said. Hop to it then, why don't you?"

"I was talking to you, little demon," the entity gurgled. "I was commanded to kill the human. I have no wish to destroy any of our own kind, even one as lowly as yourself."

I sputtered in indignation. "Pathetic? Lowly? Have you no idea who I am?"

"Should I?"

"I am Bartimaeus... of Uruk!"

"Never heard of you,"

"Builder of the Walls of Jericho,"

"Well you did a right bang-up job there, didn't you?"

"Why? What happened to them? Did someone graffiti my work? Because if they did, so help me, by my great and awesome power, I shall hunt down the buggers until they are so terribly-"

"Why is she still alive?" A strapping youth strode through the wrecked doorway and placed himself strategically behind the scaly demon. He was a tall boy, perhaps sixteen years with blond scruffy hair and a sturdy build. In the dim light he struck an imposing figure silhouetted against the white light of the open doorway.

The little dark haired girl whimpered.

"Awww," the boy crooned, "is the little birdie scared? Does the little birdie want to be put out of it's misery?"

"Jax, please," the girl said, her voice near hysterical, "you don't have to do this!"

"Oh, but I do, little birdie. Those are the rules after all. I didn't make them, even if I wouldn't change them." His gaze fell upon me. "And what is this supposed to be?" he asked his scaly servant.

Her answer came like a burbling brook. "The girl appears to have summoned a white bed sheet attempting to impersonate a ghost and making dubious hyperbolic claims."

"Such as?"

"It claims to have built the Walls of Jericho,"

"Did a right bang-up job then, didn't he?" (Alright! Mental note to self: Look up whatever happened to that wretched wall after avoiding near certain death.) "Anything you can't handle?"

"No, master,"

"Then tell me, Nautillisa, why is she still alive?"

The entity named Nautillisa reacted at once. She spread razor sharp fins and threw herself at the girl like a wave crashing down on a tiny surf. She splashed heavily against the plastered wall and nearly tore it down without noticing. The ground shook and the creaking structure mixed it's screams with the roar of a monstrous monsoon. All in all, it was really quite a splendid display of artistic nuance and raw talent. I give her a 'seven'.

I docked some points because the girl, her intended target, was not there.

In general I have no qualms with my masters meeting disturbingly macabre endings and have even orchestrated a few of them myself, but in this case I felt my lot fell on the side of the sniveling lass who summoned me. It was not pity as I'm sure some of you dullards may be naively contemplating. (Young humans are just as gross as their adult counterparts, and whinier to boot.) It was more that I could not abide siding with that Nautillisa creature. After all, she had mocked my bed sheet ghost disguise! (Honestly, had she never heard of classic retro irony? For shame!)

Being a sheet, I was in the perfect position to wrap myself around the screaming girl, engulfing her and absorbing most of the impact of the tsunami named Nautillisa that violently struck us. The wave pounded us against the wall and I helped it along a bit, creating a small hole that we were immediately flushed through from the force of the pressure. (I used the term 'flush' because, yes, it happened exactly the way it sounded.) We slid down a moldy warped hallway, carried along by the streaming jet of water behind us.

I quickly shifted my form into a stout penguin, grabbed a bunch of the girl's jacket in my beak and tore down at full speed over my improvised slip'n'slide. "We have to get out of here," I said through a beak full of jacket. "In a minute she'll see that we're not imitating really flat rugs back in that room and she'll come after us. And I really don't want to tangle with an Elemental Spirit right now."

"What is-" the girl tried to speak but only managed to cough up a lung full of water. "What... is... an 'Elemental'?"

"It's a really mean Afrit who's gone mental, alright? Now settle down and concentrate on breathing."

(Truthfully speaking, that wasn't the strict definition, even if one could make the case, but right then and there in that decrepit hallway I just didn't feel like discussing it. But for you, I'll give it a go.

You know how most creatures are composed of different elements. Of course you do. I, for example, am made of a glorious mixture of Fire and Air. (You reading this right now are undoubtedly formed from copious quantities of methane and puppy dog tails.) Elementals, on the other hand, have their source in only one element, hence the reason they are so deadly and mental.)

I heard a roar of frustrated fury echo behind and knew we were overdue for an exit. "Time to go," I said.

"Wait!" the girl yelled, "We have to find Melissa!"

"I'm sure Melissa knows where she is, little birdie. Right now what we have to worry about is ourselves. Specifically me." I caught sight of a partially shattered window and pushed myself even faster, aiming directly at it. Behind me I felt the water coalescing and hardening, forming clawing tentacles that grabbed for my flippers.

The window drew closer...

A viciously brutal wave slashed through the hallway behind us, tearing the plaster and cement like tissue.

Almost there...

An enraged sound struck us like a living sledgehammer, brimming full with hate and spite. "BARTIMAEUUUUUSSSS!" She'd remember my name now, I thought as we crashed the window and flew out into the open air.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the cool air hit my face only to squawk with panic again when I realized I had just leaped from a window thirteen stories up. (Of course I squawked. I was a penguin for crying out loud!) I swiftly sprouted large non-penguin wings and shifted the girl from my beak to newly formed talons. "Why didn't you tell me we were that high up?" I scolded the girl accusingly.

"The subject didn't come up," she answered levelly. I sniffed in annoyance and took a good first look at this new world. Grayness spread out in all directions from the steel-cast sky above to the rubble-strewn city that lie in ruins beneath. The devastation went all the way to the horizon and sent up the odd cloud of smoke and steam in streaming pillars. It looked as though a war had taken place here. Within the ruble all was still. Cold and lifeless without a trace of movement. A monumental tomb.

By contrast the skies were all aflutter with movement. Tiny specks zipped two and fro around the demolished city with dizzying speed. On closer inspection I saw that they were imps. Hundreds of little imps zipping all around holding little...

Was I seeing it correctly? Were they all holding little cameras? They were! They were flying around wielding little cameras and filming. I noticed then that a few of them had their recorders trained upon me, filming my flight like a horde of paparazzi. Overhead a massive clear dome enveloped the ruined city caging us in and causing a wave of claustrophobia to slew through my essence. "What the bloody hell?" I muttered. "What is going on? Where are we? What is this?"

"Demon," the girl spoke. She was calm and collected now and her words came out with cool determination. "You can call me Abby," (Of course I could call her 'Abby'. She was obviously hiding her true name.) "And welcome to what's left of district 12. Welcome to the fifteenth season of the ever popular, annual Hunter Games."


	5. Abigail III

**ABIGAIL**

The stretched limo winded it's way slowly through the thronged London streets. Hordes of merry makers pressed in close to the crawling vehicle and squashed their faces against the windows, intent on looking in through the tinted glass. They knocked on the windows and doors and jeered, attempting to provoke a reaction from the passenger within as one would do with a boring specimen in the zoo.

Inside the car Abigail had positioned herself squarely in the middle of the seat as far as possible from the windows, her eyes staring doggedly at her shoes, determined not to look at the grotesquely squished faces leering at her from all sides. She tried not to listen to what they were yelling but she couldn't help overhearing most of the cat-calls, vulgar jokes and laughing threats.

Towards the front of the limo the driver sat, staring impassively ahead while plowing on deliberately through the living mesh of people. He had not spoken a word to her since she had entered the car three hours before. He had not even so much as blinked when Abigail informed him she desperately needed the loo. He simply sat stoic in his driver's seat and performed his duty. (While Abigail wished she could perform hers.) At length he flicked on the T.V. set in the back seat and raised the volume until Abigail's requests and demands were drowned out.

"...All gathered here, eagerly awaiting the star cast of the new season of the Hunter Games," the anchor woman stood beside a huge mass of people and spoke with animated excitement. She had short cropped pink and green hair that clashed horribly with her finely waxed blue mustache. (Currently all the rage.) "Rumor has it that this years gathering are as feral and monstrous as has ever been procured. I daresay they are positively blood-thirsty, and that is something we all want to see, isn't it folks?" The crowd behind her cheered in appreciation. The news woman cupped her hand theatrically to her ear and made an exaggerated scowl . "I couldn't hear you lot that time! I say again, 'What do we want to see'?"

The crowd roared it's enthusiasm and Abigail distinctly caught a single word: 'BLOOD'.

"As you viewers at home can see, this lot is ready and rearing to go. Fun, fun, fun for the whole family. Don't forget to place bets on your favorites. Who knows? You may just clean up. To place your bets just call 555-2343 or text the contestant's name to KILLTHATMAGICIAN. Standard text messaging rates apply..."

Abigail felt herself becoming violently ill and that feeling only intensified when the driver turned the limo into a closed-off parking lot, stopped the car and said, "We're here."

He opened her door and gruffly pulled her out into the empty parking lot. Several yards away Abigail saw the mob pressing against the iron gates at the entrance and calling out in hysterics. She had the quickest impression of flashing recording cameras before a heavy hand fell upon her shoulder and led her firmly down a path. "Yer one o' the smaller ones, y'know," the Chauffeur whispered to her as he pushed her along. "Quieter too. Tryin' to remember all your evil incanterations and devil's jibe, aren'tche? I betcha are. Well, yer devil's tricks aint gonna do you no help here, you filfy creature." The sneer through which he spoke was obvious without having to look at him. His fingers began to squeeze painfully on her tiny shoulder and Abigail let out a light squeal. "Ruddy magicians. Think you're all so ruddy special. So high and mighty like you c'n treat us regular folk any which way you like. Like we're animals. Like we aint got human dignity! Yeh make me sick, the whole bunch o' you." He spat thickly and lowered his head until his liquor breath was steaming up her ear. "Know what I think, though?" he said, softer yet, "I think you're gonna be the first to die. Tha's whot I'm bettin' on. You're gonna go first. An' it's gonna be ugly."

Abigail bit her lower lip to hold back her cry and grasped her locket convulsively. She held onto it as though it were a rock in a stormy sea and she kept a firm hold on it as they marched into the white-washed sound stage.

* * *

"O...M...G! Is _this_ all I have to work with?" The lanky stylist danced up to Abigail and gingerly clutched a lock of her dark straggly hair between two fingers, holing it at arms length. "This is dreadful! Utterly dreadful! I am an _artist_. I must have material with which to work. I must be able to express myself." His lanky fingers clutched at his bald head where tremendous bursting zits had been artistically grown to spell the words 'YOU SUCK' and 'ACDC'. "There is no theme here!" he whinged, "The only thing this creature says is, 'Oh, look at me! I'm a little girl! Gawd! And what are you looking at?" he spat nastily at Abigail who was positively fascinated by his fashionable acne.

"Nothing," she said, quickly averting her gaze.

"Oh, come now, Blightly," a young assistant with polka-dotted skin said. "We can always use the old standby theme."

"What? 'Sexy'?"

"Yes,"

"No! We can't do that! She's twelve, for crying out loud! They already did that last year!

"Oh, that's right. I forgot."

"Why can't I just go as I am?" Abigail asked.

"Don't be silly," the polka-dot lady giggled. "We wouldn't be cruel enough to let meet your public all boring and ugly, would we?"

"But-" Abigail stammered, her head swimming, "but I'm not boring or ugly-"

"It's talking..." Blightly muttered through clenched teeth. "How am I supposed to concentrate when it keeps talking? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BE A BLOODY GENIUS WHILE EVERYBODY KEEPS JABBERING ON AND ON LIKE A BUNCH OF BLOODY-" He stopped suddenly and his eyes opened wide, staring vaguely off into the distance. "I have it," he said, quietly. "I have it. Inspiration!" He held out his hand as though to smooth out the vision he beheld before him. "I really _am_ a genius. We'll go as 'Cute Native Cannibal Girl'."

"What?" Abigail nearly shrieked.

"Quiet!" the polka-dot girl hissed. "He's having his inspiration! You never interrupt him in middle of his inspiration!"

"I can see it all now!" Blightly went on in a wispy ethereal voice. "She will represent the wise old Shaman of the East. The Witch Doctors who conjured ancient, all natural, organic demons. We'll shave her head down the middle for the traditional inverted Mohawk. We'll pierce her nostrils and put a really big bone through it, elegantly decorated of course, and we'll file her teeth down into sharp little points and dress her in strands of shiny beads and we'll introduce her to the public while she performs an ancient war-dance and chanting, 'Hungadunga, Hungadunga, Hungadunga, Hungadunga." In his excited reverie the stylist clutched his bald head, splattering several of the zits. "It will be marvelous!" he sang. "My greatest masterpiece _ev-ver_! Quickly, my assistants! We must get to work!"

"I'll get the shaver,"

"I'll get the needle,"

"I'll get the file,"

"I'll get the bone,"

"NO!" Abigail yelled and flung herself atop a sterile metal table out of the reach of their surprised grasping hands. These people were all crazy, she said to herself as she slowly backed away from them. All of them, utterly mad.

They began to close in, circling her small metal table and making what they thought were soft calming noises. "Come now, sweetness," one of the assistants cooed gently, brandishing a wicked looking sharp metal object. "It won't hurt at all. My word of honor, it won't."

"You are not making me a Cannibal Girl!" Abigail said, keeping the quaver out of her voice.

"Outrageous!" Blightly bellowed. "Scandalous! Anarchist! Philistine! You cannot obstruct art! Genius must be expressed!"

"I won't let you!"

The stylist smiled, revealing pearly white round teeth and Abigail felt her hackles raise. "The thing is, sweetness," he said, his voice once again soft and ethereal, "art will always prevail and the human spirit will always rise to express itself. Not to mention you have no choice."

Two of the assistants lunged for her and grabbed her shoulders, pinning her tightly. Abigail felt their long nails sink in and she gasped. They dragged her forward towards the polka-dot lady who was sterilizing a large needle with a blowtorch. "Hold her nose steady then," she yelled.

In desperation, Abigail turned her head and sunk her teeth into one of the hands grasping her. The grip loosened accompanied by a harsh curse. Abigail quickly shrugged out of her sweater and dove between the forest of feet that surrounded her. There was total pandemonium in that small room as everyone collided and tripped over each other, Abigail managing to stay just out of reach.

She emerged from the fur ball and sprinted across the room to the exit. She laid a hand on the handle and turned.

It didn't move. She was locked in.

"That will be quite enough of that," Blightly said, dusting himself off. "You _will_ cooperate now." He began to stride unhurriedly across the room.

Abigail, near overcome with panic, threw open a make-up cabinet that was placed against the wall. She reached inside and produced a stick of blue lipstick. Without pausing to think she immediately knelt down and began scrawling on the polished floor around her. Her hand shook but the marks took on a definite shape.

The stylist watched her curiously as she formed a rough five-pointed star surrounding herself and then he paled. "What are you doing?" he said, stepping forward urgently.

"Stop!" Abigail commanded in as authoritative a voice as she could muster. "Stop where you are or I will bring the demons down upon you." The entire room went completely still. Abigail could hardly believe they had fallen for her bluff. Her shaky little star didn't even resemble a proper pentagram. "I will not have my head shaven," she said, "I will not have my nostrils pierced and I will definitely not be impersonating any 'Native Cannibal Girl'."

Blightly sneered in disgust. "Alright. Tell me then, little miss know-it-all, little miss Oh-I'm-an-artist-all-of-a-sudden. How do _you_ think you ought to be presented?"

Abigail was at a loss at that. She had not given the matter on ounce of thought. She had been firmly concentrating on not having her teeth filed. She looked around the room at all the gaudy, strewn objects. Bracelets and bangles, wigs, boots, gloves, capes, of all colors and sizes presented themselves. And then her eyes alighted upon a small broach. A small golden ornament shaped like a bird. A mockingjay. And she knew.

* * *

Once again, fear not. Bartimaeus himself will back... right after a word from our sponsors.

Special thank you to Nightfuries. Now go read his stuff.


End file.
